


New York, New York

by californiaz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Bisexual Louis, Bisexual Male Character, Fluff and Angst, Gay Harry, Gay Harry Styles, Humor, John Lennon's Death, Louis Tomlinson Loves Harry Styles, Nevada, New York City, References to the Beatles, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 16:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/californiaz/pseuds/californiaz
Summary: And Louis' really reaching for straws now. He’s going to be decked, beat up, killed. “I mean, you’re welcome to. Um. Come to the Big Apple, y’know?”Except -- Harry isn’t mad. He’s grinning. It’s one of those big, shit-eating grins. And even though he’s too tall and he’s somehow gotten chocolate on Louis’ white Beatles’ shirt and his hair is a complete mess, Louis wants him to keep grinning.New York is 2,700 miles away from Nevada. Eleanor, Niall, Liam, and Zayn are just along for the ride.





	New York, New York

**Author's Note:**

> as a lesbian trying to write a gay fic, fuck. will be around 15 chapters.

     **AT TWELVE AM EXACTLY** , Louis Tomlinson is chugging a bottle of water backstage some arena in Reno, Nevada. (He hadn’t bothered to look at the sign when Oli had driven them in. He was too busy stubbing his joint out before their boss did checks.) (“Put it out, Lou!” “I’m trying!”)

    Oli and Stan, Louis’ best friends and coworkers, haul guitars, mics, and stands into a miniature U-Haul. Louis knows that his job, which is to set up stages for stuck-up musicians, sucks. He tries not to dwell on it.

    The band they’d set up for was, for the most part, polite. They aren’t popular by any means, but the lead singer is hot. Oli caught him staring. (Louis swore he wasn’t.) For the most part, the day was decent. Oli and Stan had told him they’d talk to their parents about the road trip.

    Nevermind that the road trip is in two days. Nevermind that they’d planned it six months ago. Nevermind that Glenbrook, Nevada (population: 600) is almost 3,000 miles away from New York City.

    So the day was decent. The lead singer is cute, can sing, and winked at Louis. Their boss hadn’t caught them smoking. The road trip was probably (cue: maybe) happening.

    It’s another ten minutes of sweating, hauling, and smoking before Stan mouths something to Louis and Oli. He gestures his hands around like he always does when he’s over-exaggerating. Louis gives him _a_ _look_ , and it is then that he notices the band.

    The seemingly totally-polite band stands in a circle near the cooler. The dark-haired one, who Louis recognizes as the hot lead singer, looks apologetic.

    “I think we need to talk,” he says slowly, and to Louis, it sounds like he’s tasting each word on his tongue. When Louis catches Stan’s eyes, they are wide. Stan’s always loved any kind of drama that could potentially lead to a fight.

    Oli’s already headed back to work, but Louis can’t tear his gaze off of the band, completely transfixed. Fights in Glenbrook, Nevada, are sparse.

    “I’ve been talking to Sony,” the lead singer says, his voice even slower. Suppler. Like a river flowing over smooth rocks.

   “Did you get us a record deal? No way --” the guitarist tries to say, but the lead singer -- Zac, Louis remembers -- cuts him off. He’s much more to the point when he continues.

    “I want to leave the band.”

    At first, the backstage is completely quiet. Louis can almost feel the tension in the quiet air. Even Oli has stopped working again, the three of them exchanging glances of _what-the-fuck-what-the-fuck._ The blonde guitarist laughs nervously.

    The room almost seems to get thinner. Louis bites his lip -- and God, is it wrong to listen? Should they just leave?

    “Wait.” The guitarist stares between Zac and the pianist. “This is just a prank, right?”

    “I --”

 

    “You can’t leave, you’re our lead singer. C’mon, this isn’t funny. We’re getting more popular -- we scored this gig.”

   Louis almost wants to laugh. From the way Stan has his face shoved in his shirt, he can tell Stan already _is_. But then he looks at one of the boys, and the half-smile is immediately wiped off of his face.  

    It’s the drummer, he realizes, wondering why he hadn’t noticed the boy before. He has a mane of thick, curly brown hair and a lean torso. And he looks _very, very_ familiar. His eyes, which are hard to see, are green and quickly blossoming with hurt.

    “Rick, listen, okay?” Zac says quickly, twisting the fabric of his shirt. Louis pegs him as a dick and he knows that he should get back to work, but he just _can’t_. Oli nudges his shoulder but Louis nudges him back, rolling his eyes.

    “I just wanted to see what they could offer me. They think I have talent. They think you guys are holding me back,” Zac says, his voice getting lower. When the curly-haired boy drops the drumstick that he’s holding, Louis gets back to work of loading the U-Haul. He pushes the image of the boy out of his head.  

    It’s Glenbrook, Nevada.

    Phases go away.

☼☼☼

    It’s nearly one AM when he climbs into Oli’s dirty, trash-filled car. He’s so tired that his eyes are practically burning. When Stan starts the engine, he lights another joint, eyes closed as he takes in the glorious, glorious weed. (“You’re probably addicted, you know. That’s why it feels so good.” “Oh, fuck off, Oli.”)

    It’d taken them a little over an hour to finish cleaning up the arena. The guitarist had knocked over the remaining stands and dumped a Wendy's frosty all over the floor. Of course, they had to clean it up. For some reason, the drummer stayed behind to help them clean up. Louis wanted to thank him, but something garbled came out instead. Stan had given him _a_ _look._

    When Stan snaps his fingers, Louis passes the joint to him, leaning his head against the window. Oli’s shitty car has no heat and the seats are real leather. In the November cold, it's hell.

    It'd been five months since they graduated high school. The road trip, which was supposed to happen over the summer and is instead happening over the winter, is in two days. When Louis had asked about it ten minutes ago, Oli shrugged. Louis tries to push it out of his mind. He opens his eyes. They’re still in the parking lot, thirty minutes from home, and Oli is pulling out a _fucking map_ , of all things.

    Louis grabs the joint from Stan and puffs irritably, disliking the situation more and more. And then, all of a sudden, there’s a tapping against the tinted window. Expecting it to be their boss, Louis cranks the window down, sighing. They were bound to be caught anyway.

    But it’s not their boss.

    It’s the drummer. _The fucking drummer._ In the yellow streetlight, his eyes are very green and his lips are very red. Louis gulps, feeling his Adam’s apple go up and down. The drummer’s wearing a white tee and ripped jeans and he’s tall and lanky, and he’s bending down to face Louis -- and God, he is so, so stoned and the boy is so, so familiar.

    And then it hits him. The boy, whose name is something like Henry Stokes, went to school with him until the seventh grade.

    “Um. Hi,” the drummer says. His voice is very, very deep.

    “Hi,” Louis says back, ignoring Stan and Oli’s questioning glare. (“You gay, bro?” “Nah. I dunno.)

    “I’m sorry about what Ricky did.” Ricky. That’s his name, the blonde asshole. The drummer’s voice is low. Getting lower. And Louis’ stomach is filled with a warm, swooping feeling. He blames it on the weed.

    “ _‘_ s fine,” Louis says, trying to match the boy’s tone.

    “Um. I’m Harry. Harry Styles.”

    Harry. It’s a strange name, not at all American, much less Reno, Nevada. But it suits him. Louis likes it. He doesn’t really recognize it, though.

    “Louis Tomlinson. Uh” -- Louis jerks a finger at Oli and then Stan -- “Oli and Stan. I think we went to school together, Styles.”

    “Pleasure to see you again, then.” Harry analyzes them and his eyes light with what seems like interest. “We did, didn’t we? You were always causing trouble -- don’t think I remember Oli and Stan, though.” Harry’s eyes dart from the joint to Stan and then back to the joint. Louis knows he should be more concerned about the fact that his curfew was two hours ago and his mom can always tell when he smokes weed, but he can’t. Especially when Harry continues, his voice deep and lulling. Except then he says -- “Would I be able to, um, stay with one of you?”

    Harry’s voice, instead of getting quicker, gets even slower. It’s strange. “Um, just for tonight. It’s just -- the band -- we had a hotel room --”

    “Where’d you move to, Harry?” Oli cuts in, his gaze calculating. Louis’ mouth drops open, but Harry doesn’t seem to give much of a shit. Visibly.

    “Panaca. It’s an hour away. Small town.”

    “What’re you doing here?”

    “ _Oli_.” Louis stares at Oli, hard. Stan’s sort-of staring into oblivion, but Oli’s gaze is focused on Harry.

    “Just . . . hanging. I joined the band, like, two days ago. They were in Panaca. I can drum. Now ‘m here, no ride, no place to stay,” Harry says softly, staring back at Oli. Louis knows it should be Oli’s decision. It is _his_ car. But for some reason, he ignores Oli gaze of _he’s-practically-a-stranger_ and smiles at Harry.

    “You can crash with me,” Louis says, stretching. The rational part of his brain is saying that if he wasn’t stoned, he wouldn’t have done this, and Oli’s stare has probably turned into a _you-fucking-idiot_ kind of stare, but Louis can’t bring himself to care. It’s winter. He used to know Harry, anyway. College is far, far away. The prospect of New York lingers in the distance.     

    Harry grins. It’s one of those small town-relief smiles, but Louis thinks it’s one of the most beautiful things he’s seen. (And _God_ , he is so, so stoned.) Oli’s knuckles are against the steering wheel, tight and white, and he gives Louis one of those _I-hate-you_ glares as Harry climbs in the back next to him. Louis glances at Harry questioningly, holding the joint up. If he’s already stoned, he figures his mom won’t care if Harry is, too. His mom will probably recognize Harry, though.

    But Harry seems somewhat rational. He shakes his head, shrugging apologetically. Oli moves out of parallel parking, Stan holding the map up for him. Louis imagines they must look like a strange group to Harry. _But he got in the car, so_ , Louis reminds himself.

    “We’re heading to Glenbrook,” Oli says loudly, his hands tight against the steering wheel. From the way Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, Louis guesses that he hadn’t expected that. “It’s close to Panaca, I guess,” Oli continues, veering the car to the left sharply to avoid a deer.

    “You seem cool, bro,” Stan pipes up, the smoldering joint tucked behind his ear. Mumbling obscenities, Oli uses one hand to steer and one hand to grab the joint and hand it to Louis, who stubs it out into the carpet.

    Harry mumbles thanks. Louis wonders if he regrets getting into the car.

    “How old are you, anyway?” Stan continues, seeming unperturbed by the chain of events. Louis figures Harry can’t been more than eighteen like the rest of them. Like him, he has a baby face with cheeks yet to hollow out. He’s a kid, practically. _They’re kids._

    “I’ll be eighteen in a week,” Harry says, staring out the car window. “Graduated back in May. Never been out of the west. Thought maybe the band -- I dunno.” To Louis, he sounds tired. Just tired.

    “That’s cool,” Stan says, chewing his tongue. Oli’s stayed quiet, occasionally glaring at Louis. “Where’s all your shit, man?”

    “What?” Harry asks, sounding taken aback.

   “Clothing. Your clothing, toiletries, ” Oli affirms, catching Louis’ eye in the front view mirror. Louis has to stifle a giggle.

    Once again, Harry’s eyes widen in surprise. His gaze doesn’t go sullen, exactly, it just -- dampens. His eyes sort of go downcast. “Forgot, I guess,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t seem like he cares. About forgetting clothing, that is.

    “I’ve gone two weeks without changing my underwear,” Stan says with a nod. Louis rolls his eyes, but Harry -- he sort of giggles. It isn’t even a chuckle, no, it’s a flat-out _giggle_. Louis digs his nails into his palms until he feels sharp prickles of pain.

    (It’s Glenbrook, Nevada.)

    ( _Glenbrook.)_

    When they pull up to Louis’ house, he thanks the gods that all the lights in his house are out. His house is small and toys litter the yard. From Harry’s stare, Louis guesses he hadn’t expected it. “This is it, Harry,” he says loudly, (as if Harry hadn’t already known that), keeping his gaze on the ground. (His house isn’t showy. It’s a family home, for God’s sake.)

    Louis avoids Harry’s stare as they climb out. He waves bye to Stan and gives Oli the finger. “We’ll have to sneak in through the back door,” he says as they traipse through the muddy yard. “Mom told me to be home by eleven.” He snorts. Harry smiles. “Sorry it’s so . . . small,” he finds himself saying, even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t apologize.

    But Harry looks up, surprised. “I don’t care, man.”

    “Dirty. Toy-filled,” Louis rambles, staring at his mud-covered Converse.

    “ _‘_ s fine, man.”

    And that’s that. Louis slides the mudroom window open, which creaks like it always does, but his mom doesn’t come running out of her bedroom. When they make it to his room, Louis doesn’t even bother to turn the light on. He points to his bed, which is queen-sized and is sort of illuminated by the moonlight (and has a white, cereal-milk stained comforter). “You can sleep here with me, the floor -- I don’t care.”

    Louis points to his plastic dresser as he sits down on his bed, pulling his shoes off. “Pajamas in the bottom drawer. You do you.” After another second, he slips his shirt off and crashes his head against his pillow. He’s almost asleep when Harry whispers a thank you.

☼☼☼

    When Louis wakes up, he is extremely, extremely confused. The words _Harry Styles_ and _Thank You_ bounce around his head, but he can’t remember exactly _who_ Harry Styles is or why he said thank you. It takes another five minutes of staring at the lines of dried saliva on his pillow to remember, _band!_

     And then, the drummer. Harry Styles, his old classmate. Green, green eyes. “. . . stay with one of you?” The creaky window. “ _‘_ s fine, man.”

    But -- where exactly _is_ Harry? Louis’ room, which is as messy as always, shows no traces of him. His clock blinks _9:05_ in bright-green letters. And there’s just this -- sinking feeling in his chest. Sinking deeper each second. _It’s not fair_ , he thinks to himself, not knowing exactly what isn’t fair. After a second of sitting cross-legged on his bed, he decides he’ll go to Stan’s later. Tell him the story. They’ll smoke a couple of joints and laugh it off.

    He’s not hurt, he reasons as he makes his way down the stairs after slipping a shirt on. He’s just . . . surprised. Expected more of a thank you.  

    Lottie and Fizzy are already at the dining table. He ruffles Lottie’s hair, making his way to the kitchen where he’s preeetty certain he can smell bacon. And his mom is standing in the middle of the kitchen, her apron stained with grease, and in front of her is . . . Harry.

     He’s still tall and lanky and his eyes are just as green, but he’s _there._ He’s literally _there._ He animatedly waving his hands, and from the way his mom is standing, Louis can tell she’s interested in the conversation. Invested. When Harry sees him, his hands immediately fall to see side.

    “Lou,” he greets -- and _Lou?_

His mom turns around, smiling. She’s in a good mood. And how has Harry charmed him _and_ his mother in ten seconds flat?

    “Hey.” Louis runs his hands through his hair, which is no doubt tangled to hell. “Didn’t realize Harry was still here.”

    “He was cooking breakfast when I came out,” Louis’ mom said, her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I just about _jumped_ when I saw him! He told me all about what happened -- I recognized him when I saw him. Couldn’t ever forget those crazy curls, now could I?”

    This has _got_ to be some kind of crude joke. How is his mom not angry? How has she seemingly fallen in love with Harry and _not_ kicked he and Harry out of the house?

    “I just thought I could pay you back,” Harry says, grinning. And it’s a real grin, too, one with dimples and teeth. Louis doesn’t think he’s seen one of those before. “I’m vegetarian, but I found bacon and eggs in the fridge, so.”

    Louis doesn't think he’s ever met a vegetarian before. He’s not sure he knows what it means, actually. He figures that it’s pretty much the same thing as being a herbivore. “Thanks,” he says a second too late, the kitchen suddenly thick with awkwardness.

 

    “So, Harry,” Louis’ mom says, twirling the eggs on her plate with her fork. “What’re you doing here, exactly?”

    The three of them -- Fizzy and Lottie had gone upstairs, doing whatever six and eight-year-olds do -- are sitting at the table. Louis had to admit that the bacon, eggs, and freshly-squeezed orange juice Harry had prepared were phenomenal.

    “In Glenbrook?” Harry asks politely. Louis’ mom nods. “I’m just . . . here, I guess. Was planning on heading out to New York. My sister lives in Albany and I haven’t seen her in a long, long time.”

    Louis’ mom eyes him, but she doesn’t say anything about the road trip. Louis guesses she knows that he hasn’t said anything to Harry. (Yet.)

    Louis swallows a forkful of eggs. “When’re you heading out?” he asks, staring at Harry. His gaze is almost downcast. Not sad, not bored . . . just _there._

    “Whenever.” Harry shrugs. “Maybe a day. Week. Guessing I have enough cash.”

    Louis takes the last bite of eggs, thinking. Thinks about his car. Thinks about Stan and Oli. Thinks about Harry. Thinks about “ _Lou_ ” and “ _. . . ‘s fine, man._ ” Thinks about New York City and New York and everywhere he’s never been.

    “I was going to meet with Stan and Oli today,” Louis says without thinking. Harry’s eyes kind of widen.

    “Oh! I can head out, do the dishes first --”

    “I mean” -- and Louis isn’t ever shy like this, but his voice cracks anyway and he flushes red -- “you’re welcome to join, Harry. I’m sure they want to see you again.” Louis’ mom has gone quiet again. She gathers their dishes and glasses, giving Louis one of her hard-to-place glances.

    “That’d be” -- for some reason, Harry’s voice almost cracks -- “great, totally great.” They both stand up at the same time. Louis points at the door.

   “We can just walk, I guess. Is that fine with you, Mom?”

    Louis’ mom pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Whatever you want, Lou. I have to take Fizzy to ballet later, got work in an hour -- I can drop Lottie off with Dan.” She gives Harry a very, very small smile. “Nice meeting you again, Harry Styles.”

    And Harry’s eyes just fall to the floor. It’s almost like he doesn’t know what to say, but then he mumbles a polite thank you. Louis keeps his eyes on the floor.

    They make it to Stan’s in less than five minutes. The walk is quiet. Louis can’t help but notice that Harry’s hair sticks against his forehead in damp, dark curls and he’s wearing one of Louis’ Beatles’ shirt. Stan’s dad’s car is in the driveway, but Louis takes Harry through the back door like he always does.

    Mr. Lucas is sitting on their god-awful floral patterned couch, reading the newspaper. Louis waves hello, but Mr. Lucas only points upstairs, his eyes glued to the paper.

    Stan is sitting on his bed and reading comics. Oli’s perched on Stan’s window seat, messing with a paddle ball. Queen blasts from Stan’s radio.

    “Hey, fuckers,” Louis says, crashing next to Stan on his bed. Harry stands in the doorway, tall and awkward. “Remember Harry?”

    Both Stan and Oli glance up. Oli, of course, responds with a quiet, “Yeah,” while Stan shouts out a, “Harry! My man!”

    Harry grins. “Stan and . . . Owen?”

    “Oli,” Oli corrects, the paddle ball going _smack-smack-smack_.

    Harry’s cheeks flush the tiniest bit. Louis pats the spot on Stan’s bed next to him, and Harry walks over, eyes on Stan and his wide grin.

   “So, I take it you’re not gonna head out with me tomorrow?” Louis asks, spreading his arm out. He intends this to be a segway for asking Harry to go with, considering he’s going out to New York. So. Harry kind of glances up as if to say, _road trip?_ Immediately, Stan and Oli exchange glances. The _smack-smack-smack_ of the paddle ball stops.

    And Louis knows that they’re not going to go with him. He just does.

    “I talked to my parents about it,” Oli says quietly. He avoids Louis’ gaze like he always does when he’s embarrassed. ‘It’s just . . . not going to work out, Lou. They need me to work at the shop this summer.”

    Louis glances at Stan, who, for what seems like the first time ever, isn’t smiling. “It’ll be expensive, Tommo.”

    “What, one-hundred bucks?” Louis says weakly. _He_ can afford it. And _Stan_ , the son of _Princeton_ graduates, can’t afford it?

    “They want me to work on paying for college,” Stan says, staring at the ground. “It’s just -- it’ll be a big investment, take a lot of time.” And God, Louis cannot believe this. That he’s being bailed on. They’d planned this for months -- practically years. They’d _always_ wanted to go to California.

    “Right.” Louis stands up, clearing his throat. And maybe his eyes are slightly blurry, but Oli’s smoking a cig and the smoke is going straight towards his eyes. “Well, I was just stopping by. So Harry could say hi again.” Harry doesn’t protest or anything, he just nods, his eyes on the floor. “We’ll head out. I’ll head out to the city tomorrow.” Louis clears his throat again, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Harry moves to stand next to Louis.

    “Stop by tomorrow, man,” Oli calls as he and Harry walk out.

☼☼☼

    They’re back in his room. Harry hasn’t said anything, so Louis hasn’t either. He lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He throws a tennis ball up each time it falls back into his hand, his eyes focused on the green fuzz.

    And then Harry clears his throat. “Uh, Lou?”

    Louis waits for him to continue. To say he’s going to head out. Leave Louis and his messed-up life. But then he asks -- “What’s that?”

    Louis sits up. “Uh, what?”

    Harry points to a poster. It’s one that he made when he was eight, out of white poster board and pink and green glitter glue. He, Stan, and Oli had made it, meticulously spelling out “PROJECT ROAD TRIP” at the top before drawing (well, glitter-gluing) the state of New York below it.

    “A poster,” Louis chuckles dryly. “We’ve always wanted to go to New York. We made that poster while we were watching the Beatles play at Madison Square, I think. We heard that they’re supposed to have a reunion concert there, sometime in June . . . but they’re broken up. I know they won’t, really, but . . . maybe if I go . . . I don’t know, man. I just gotta get out.”

    “You like the Beatles?” Harry asks, cocking his head.

    “Yeah . . .” Louis throws the ball back up. “I know, go ahead make fun of me. They’re a boy band or whatever. But my mom loved them, so I do, too.”

    “No!” Harry looks the most excited he’s ever been. “I _love_ the Beatles. I grew up with them, my sister was always playing them, my mom. I’ve never met another _guy_ who likes them.”

    “Yeah, I’ve loved them since . . . ,” Louis begins, trailing off. He remembers that interview he saw when he was ten. Some scrawny news reporter had caught John Lennon in Central Park when a big gay rights parade was happening.

    “What do you think of the movements the homosexuals are taking? Does it affect your concerts?” he’d asked, clutching onto his hat.

    “I think that anybody can be whoever they want to be,” John Lennon had said, his voice very, very soft. Louis hadn’t known what _gay_ meant. He just remembered seeing two guys kissing and feeling a warm feeling in his stomach. (When he kissed Hannah, he had that same feeling. He doesn’t know what he is.)

“I just like them.” Louis shrugs. He avoids Harry’s gaze. It’s then that he thinks, _fuck it, really._ “And I sorta like dudes, y’know? So . . .” Louis shrugs again. His cheeks have gone red, probably too red. He doesn’t look at Harry. He waits for the inexplicable, _fag_ , but it never comes. Harry just nods very slowly.

    “Okay.” And then, “ _‘_ s fine, man.”

     _“‘s fine, man.”_

 And Louis’ really reaching for straws now. He’s going to be decked, beat up, killed. “I mean, you’re welcome to. Um. Come to the Big Apple, y’know?”

    Except -- Harry isn’t mad. He’s _grinning_ . It’s one of those big, shit-eating grins. And even though he’s too tall and he’s somehow gotten _chocolate_ on Louis’ _white_ Beatles’ shirt and his hair is a complete _mess_ , Louis wants him to keep grinning. And grin some more. And never stop grinning.

    “Holy shit, Lou.” _Lou_ . He said it again. “I would _die_ if I could go to New York, man. You don’t even know,” Harry says, his eyes completely serious. “I’ve wanted to go _forever_. And then you said the road trip, but then they bailed, and I didn’t want to impose --”

    “No, man, are you for real?” Louis asks, grabbing Harry’s arm. “Like, you’re not shitting me? You’re not going to laugh and leave? You’re completely serious?”

    And Harry grabs Louis’ arm right back and says, “I’ve never been more serious about anything other than this.”

☼☼☼

    They’re standing in Louis’ garage. His mom still isn’t home and his car still has a cracked windshield and is still painted a god-awful shade of yellow. Louis’ had it since he wrecked his Ford and found it on the side of the road, keys in the ignition, a sign on the windshield that said FREE in bold, black letters.

    “I . . . love it,” Harry says, his eyes running over every crack and dent on the car. “This is the _best_ fucking car I have ever seen in the world.”

    His car is the VW Type 2. The back has no seats (they’d been gone when he’d found the car) and instead has a thin mattress laid across it. For sleeping, Louis reckons, though he’s never needed to sleep in it.

    “Does it have a name?” Harry continues, running delicate hands over the exterior.

    Louis wrinkles his nose. “Nah?” he says in a questioning manner, stretching the word.

    Harry turns around to just _stare_ at Louis. “Lou,” he says sternly, “this car cannot _not_ have a name.”

    “Okaaaaay? How about . . .” Louis tilts his head. “How about Mixie?”

    And this time, Harry’s mouth _literally_ drops open. He almost looks . . . offended. “Mixie?” he says indignantly. “ _Mixie?_ ” he repeats, throwing his hands in the air. “You _cannot_ name a beauty like this . . . _Mixie_ ,” he says, almost like it pains him to utter the word ‘Mixie’. “Does it have any special qualities?”

    “Uh . . .” Louis shrugs. “I dunno, man. It sometimes makes weird, straining sounds. Um. The engine only turns on if you call it a good girl first.”

    And Harry doesn’t giggle. He doesn’t chuckle. He’s completely serious when he gives Louis a nasty glare before staring at the cracked windshield of the van.

   “It should be something, like.” Harry’s fingers graze the silver, dust-covered peace sign that rests on the radiator. “Majestic. Like . . . Elona.” Harry’s eyes immediately widen. “Yes! Elona. That’s perfect.” His gaze goes to Louis. “What do you think, Lou?”

    Louis' mouth goes dry. He stares at Harry and his wild hair. “Um . . .” He looks at the car and Harry’s eyes, that are _way_ too excited for something like the naming of a shitty van. “Elona.” But as he says it, he thinks it fits. As weird as it sounds, the car _looks_ like an Elona. Looks like a van destined to drive to New York. Like a van destined to explore, drive, and live. A van destined to see deserts, mountains, and starry, starry skies. “Elona is perfect,” he says confidently.

    Harry swings the passenger door open, crawling into the car, Louis going in through the driver's door. Inside, the seats are light-brown leather, and instead of car mats, Louis chopped turquoise pieces of shag carpet into small squares and put them in place of car mats. Queen, Pink Floyd, and the Beatles stickers litter the car dashboard. The mattress in the back has an ugly, knit blanket draped across it and faintly smells like mold.

    “This is the best fucking car,” Harry begins seriously, “I have _ever_ seen. She is fucking beautiful.” He stretches out, kicking his legs up on the dashboard.

    Louis snorts. “You sure you’ll be saying that when we drive through Ohio and the heat goes out?”

    Harry tilts his head slightly, strands of curls sticking to his lips. “Ohio?”

    “Yeah. Ohio, cold winters, deserts, mountains, all that shit.”

    “Holy. Shit.” Harry pushes his bangs to the side, but they, of course, fall right back. “Holy. Shit,” he repeats quietly, and then he suddenly throws his hands up. “We’re going to NEW-FUCKING-YORK!”

    Louis kicks his feet up on the dashboard, too, staring out the windshield. The sky is pink and orange, and even though it's November, fireflies dart across the interior of the van. And Harry turns to stare at Louis, a grin splitting across his face.

    “New York,” Louis affirms quietly, staring at Harry and his never-ending grin. “I’ve never been out of Nevada, you know?”

    “Yeah.” Harry glances at the fireflies. One lands on his hand. “I’ve almost been to Mexico, but . . .”

    “Almost?” Louis teases.

    “Well, yeah. Me and some friends drove up to the border, but we chickened out.”

    “I’ve been to Reno, Glenbrook, and the Hoover Trip. For a school trip when I was six. We just couldn’t ever afford to leave the state, you know?”

    Harry sort of shrugs. Louis curses inwardly, staring back out of the window. It’s stupid to complain about his problems. It’s _Nevada_. Everybody’s either broke or suburban-rich with parents that do crack.

    “I’ve been to . . . Cali, I think. We have some family up there, but we haven’t been back. My mom doesn’t really get along with my uncle. He has a boyfriend, I think.” And Harry almost winces, but he’s just staring at the firefly that’s still on his hand, his lips pursed.

    “I’ve never actually seen the ocean,” Louis admits quietly. “Like, we’re right by California, but it’s just . . . a lot. I was supposed to go with some friends when I graduated, but it’s just . . . hard. Mom’s only letting me do this road trip because I have enough cash. But the beach trip meant we had to pay for a share of a house to rent . . . it’s just hard, man.”

    “Yeah, I know.” Harry’s hand dangles lazily out of the window. “I don’t think I’ve seen it. My sister has, probably. But that was before Des . . .” Harry’s gaze sours. He doesn’t continue.

    “I know, man.” Louis doesn’t, _really_. But from Harry’s pinched brow and by the way he says _Des_ , he does.

    And then -- Harry kind of _grabs_ Louis’ hand. Except it’s not really a _grab_. His hand just kind of wraps around Louis’, and Louis wonders if this is some kind of test. If he doesn’t let go, will Harry punch him? Everything is kind of frozen, and Louis can _feel_ the sweat from Harry’s hand but he can’t feel anything else.

☼☼☼

    A _boy_ just held Louis’ hand. A _boy_ just held his hand for _fifteen minutes straight_ as they watched as the sun set through the cracked windshield of Louis’ shitty van. And now they’re both leaning against the hood of the van side-by-side, not looking at each other.

    “What time do you want to meet?” Harry asks, meeting Louis’ eyes. He doesn’t look embarrassed or awkward. He _most definitely_ doesn’t look like a boy who would grab other boys’ hands.

    “Um.” Louis clears his throat, running his hand through his sweat-filled hair. “What?”

    “Tomorrow. I think I’ll catch a bus home” -- and Louis _literally_ feels his heart freeze at the word _home_ , but then Harry continues -- “and get some clothing and shit. We’re gonna wanna meet early, right?” Harry’s eyes hold a hint of confusion. His voice is slow and it’s just like crushed velvet and all Louis can think about is how _warm_ his hand was.

    “Yeah. Yeah. We can meet here, at, like, six?”

    “AM?”

    “Yeah.” Louis shrugs. His voice is faint and he hopes Harry doesn’t ask him to repeat himself, because he doesn’t think he can say anything other than, _kiss me._

    Except -- Harry’s grinning one of his shit-eating grins. He’s smiling too wide for something as simple as a shitty van and waking up at six in the morning. And Louis knows that he’s never met another gay person in Glenbrook, Nevada. Much less in the entire _state_ of Nevada. But this _boy,_ who has frizzy hair and bright-green eyes, _held his hand._ That’s got to count for something, right?

    “Works for me.” And then Harry’s bending forward and Louis closes his eyes, but Harry doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he brushes part of Louis’ bangs out of his eyes. Louis can’t help but wonder if this is what flirting is, because God, other than kissing Hannah in seventh grade, he’s had no experience. _None_. But all Harry does next is smile and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lou.”

   As Harry heads towards the bus stop, Louis’ mom’s car pulls up. All Louis can do is stuff his hands in his pocket and watch the fireflies and just wonder about exactly _who_ Harry Styles is.


End file.
